


Self-Destruct

by CrowHorse1, Dreamsnake



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowHorse1/pseuds/CrowHorse1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsnake/pseuds/Dreamsnake
Summary: A badly wounded Nacho Varga returns to his father's house to rest, but they say there is no rest for the wicked.In canon there is an unexplained (so far) gap between Nacho's arrival at his father's house and his reappearance at the end of season 4. By then his attitude and lifestyle seemed to have undergone such a change, but only on the surface. This is my attempt to explain the changes.Love to hear what you think, and of course nice comments and kudos encourage writing!Complete.





	1. Chapter 1

  * 


Moving with extreme caution, Nacho eased his torso upright until his shoulders were flush against the back of the lumpy chair. Even such a minor movement caused his father's anxious face to swim in and out of focus.

"No, Papa," he reassured him in a voice that sounded reedy even to his own ears. He would stay on the chair, even though every fiber of his being cried out to lie down on the bed in the back room.

The decision wasn't born of caution - with Fring temporarily off his case, the Salamanca brothers heading south and the Espanozas effectively wiped out, the imminent threat level to his wellbeing was lower than it had been for some time. It was more that the vicious throb around the metal lodged in his right shoulder and the searing burn of the bullet hole puncturing his left side meant it was unlikely he would find a position in which it was bearable to lie prostrate. To remain seated, propped awkwardly against the cushions, seemed to be his only option.

The events of the last few days had imposed a heavy mental and physical toll, payment of which was now long overdue. Exhausted and weak, he was finding it increasingly difficult to think about anything outside the razor wire perimeters of his personal hell.

The world around him seemed to fade, time drifting by until the shock of a cold glass against his palm roused him. Nacho raised it to his mouth, embarrassed by the way his shaking hand caused it to knock audibly against his teeth. He swallowed greedily, cool liquid soothing his dry throat even as it stung cracked lips and released a copper tang of blood to wash over his tongue.

His father's hands fluttered briefly and ineffectually over the blood soaked dressings as he considered, and rejected, the idea of removing them. He disappeared briefly from his son's field of vision, returning soon after with a wet cloth. Nacho watched through his eyelashes, fighting the urge to blink in case the salt water of gratitude blurring his vision overspilled and betrayed him. He couldn't imagine the effect such an unexpected demonstration would have on his father. He wished he had the energy to thank him, but found himself temporarily struck dumb as the familiar and work-worn hands dabbed away at the worst patches of dirt and dried blood on his bare arms and face.

The scratchy warmth of a light blanket settled around his upper body and his legs were raised carefully until they were propped on something soft that now lay folded on top of the low table. Gentle hands took hold of his left boot, but the resultant, hesitant tug wrenched his gut wound and wrung a groan from him that was out in the air between them before he could contain it behind his teeth. There was a pause and then his father's voice said something quietly over his head, a hand passed over his forehead and the ceiling light clicked off.

Nacho closed his eyes against the dim glow of the lamp and wished desperately for unconsciousness.  

…..

Three days earlier…

It was quite by chance that Mike had to wait at the intersection, his steady progress thwarted by the ponderous crawl of a refuse truck. He glanced idly to the right and caught sight of a battered van he recognized instantly as the one used by Nacho Varga. It's hard to forget a vehicle when you've stood opposite it, playing bodyguard to a baseball card collecting, drug pusher wannabe. The van was innocuous enough, parked tight alongside an old warehouse in Salamanca territory, and Mike didn't waste much time thinking about it; it was just Varga, taking advantage of Hector's absence, no doubt hip-deep in some dodgy deal.

He raised an eyebrow when it was still parked up late next evening, as he passed by on the way back from Stacey's. It looked a little forlorn, abandoned under a broken light, as though it was waiting for a date that never showed. He snorted at himself for attaching an emotion to an inanimate object, decided that's what came of spending too much time with Kylie and put it out of his mind.

Early the following morning, en route to The Diner for some ham and eggs, he was surprised to see the vehicle in exactly the same place, front wheels angled slightly away from the building, ready for a quick take-off, or perhaps as quick a take-off as you can get in a souped-up van that had seen better days 100,000 miles earlier. The pale sun angling between the buildings picked out a light covering of dust that had settled on the windscreen and multi-hued panels. Mike sucked in his cheeks, puzzled, and puffed out a breath of air in a considering way. He was mildly surprised when he saw that his reflection in the side window wore a little frown.

It wasn't so much a deliberate decision, more a moment of inattention that caused him to take a roundabout route back home after a few hours of employment that definitely challenged the word 'legal'. The van was baking under the sweltering afternoon sun, untouched by lowlife, recognition and avoidance of gang property being an essential survival skill when you lived on the wrong side of the tracks.

Mike drove on slowly, chewing over thoughts of Varga and Hector Salamanca and things like repercussions and bodies dumped in the desert. It wasn't that he was exactly worried about Nacho Varga; the man was after all lieutenant to a major player in the world of drug cartels, was no stranger to violence and was bound to meet a sticky end at some point. It was more a case of Better the Devil You Know. If the man was gone, who knew what kind of psychotic shithead would take his place?

Then there was the fact that Nacho was the same age, give or take a little, as his own Mattie would have been, sometimes even had the same look of vulnerability flicker briefly beneath the hardass mask, although why that was relevant was a question Mike was not willing to ask himself. Not that anyone else would have seen through the gangster trappings, but if there was one thing Mike was good at, it was reading people. In his opinion the book that was Nacho Varga wasn't quite the story illustrated on the cover.

He deliberately avoided the area on the following day, even made a point of going out of his way when he drove home after a few beers, although if anyone had asked he would’ve had to admit it was no accident Varga's name had been dropped casually into a conversation with some small-time dealers at the bar. It'd cost him a few beers to lubricate their memories, but the upshot was that Varga had not been seen for several days.

It shocked him a little, the quick twinge of regret when he realized he may never see that familiar stance again, the giveaway tell of lip chewing beneath the impassive stare. It made him feel he should have said more, done more, done something to slow down the younger man’s headlong rush to self-destruction. He thought he must be getting old and soft, wasting his time worrying about the whereabouts of some lowlife scum. Eventually he decided it was because of old man Varga - a decent man trying to make an honest living, perhaps now mourning the loss of a reprobate son. Now loss was something Mike understood only too well, still only one step away himself from despair from the very same cause.

He settled in for the night with a growing sense of unease, heightened when he switched on the TV to find breaking news coverage of a local gang shootout splashed across the screen.

...

For Nacho the night was a kaleidoscope of reds; reds that pulsed behind his closed eyelids with every heavy thud of his heart, red that oozed slick between his fingers when exhaustion pulled him briefly under into the realm of uneasy nightmares. He fought back to the surface again and again, his chest heaving with exertion and his pulse fluttering with panic. It was a relief when the dawn finally came and the red gave way to grey and beige.

He struggled slowly out from beneath the blanket, feeling hot and dried out, with his bladder an uneasy pressure that demanded attention. He passed a meagre stream of blood-streaked piss, no doubt courtesy of kidneys bruised by the shockwave of a bullet tearing through his lower abdomen, and shuffled back to his chair on shaking legs, not even realising his father was in the room until a supporting hand took hold of his arm.

His father looked tired, shadows beneath his eyes and the lines around his mouth deeper and more somber than usual.

"You are not well, mijo. You need the hospital." The worry and fear were written plain on his face. 

"It's okay." Nacho laid his palm over the supporting hand and squeezed briefly. "There's somewhere I can go. If I can rest a little longer..."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of accents on the occasional Spanish word - my keyboard is a bit limited. Please take it that any conversation between Nacho and his father is in that language.

It was mid-morning before Nacho's head cleared enough for him to realise his father had stayed home from work. The man who never missed a day's work, even when he was sick himself, had stayed home to care for his son. Nacho loved him for it, with the deep, despairing love of a man for the only close family member he had left. It made his chest clench, that bittersweet desire to cling on to the last person who loved him, even as he knew he should push him away, endangered as was by Nacho's very existence.

I shouldn't have come back here, thought Nacho with regret. I should have gone to...somewhere else, some place Papa wouldn't have been involved in this latest shit. Trouble was, he couldn't think of any place else he could have gone. It was an uncomfortable feeling. At an age most men had settled down with a wife and kids, not only did he have nowhere to turn, but also his gut instinct when he was brought to his knees was to crawl back home like a kicked puppy.

"Ignatio. Ignatio?"

The sharp note of concern in his father's voice alerted him to the fact that he had zoned out, too caught up in his own thoughts to be fully aware of what was going on around him. He shook himself mentally, mildly horrified at how much he was off his game. 

"Sorry. I was..." Thinking. About what a spectacular fucking failure he'd made of his life.

"You tell me you won't be safe if you go to the hospital, but mijo, you need medicine, bandages!"

"No, Papa..."

But there was no stopping Varga Senior, the dam holding back anxiety built up over years finally crumbling under this latest onslaught, the horror of his only son turning up in a state near to outright collapse.

"You are burning up, Ignatio! Am I supposed to sit here and watch you until you pass out? Until you die? What kind of father am I, that I can't even protect my son from these demons!"

"Papa..."

"No!"

The explosive word was accompanied by the slam of his father's hand upon the table. Nacho flinched involuntarily and hissed when the unexpected short movement jarred his wounds. He gathered himself rapidly and spoke with a surity he did not feel.

"I will be okay. I promise. A professional saw to my injuries."

He declined to mention that said professional was a veterinary surgeon who had operated on him in far from sanitary conditions. Deliberately softening his expression, he met his father's gaze with earnest eyes. "Later today I will go to a friend; he has contacts; he will get me any meds I need." Like he had any fucking friends. "Please, Papa, don't worry."

"Don't worry!" His father ran a hand through the scant remains of his hair. "Tell me, when did you last even eat?"

Nacho gaped at him, momentarily thrown by the sudden change of topic. When had he last eaten? It must've been the evening before the fatal drugs collection from Fring. He wasn't hungry; getting shot tended to spoil your appetite.

"It's been a while," he admitted. "But..."

"You need to eat, Ignatio. I will make you something." 

A short while later his father left the house, leaving Nacho curled in his chair, riding a slow merry-go-round of hot sweats and icy chills. He dozed, uncomfortable and vaguely anxious, alternately pushing the blanket off and then pulling it back on again, until he heard his father's key in the door.

"It's only me, Ignatio."

If he'd felt more himself, the fact Manuel Varga had felt it necessary to announce himself would have bothered his son on all sorts of levels.

There was the sound of keys dropping into a tin and then his father appeared, wearing a frown and clutching a paper sack from the local pharmacy. He pulled out the type of painkillers you can buy over the counter and a few simple dressings and wipes.

"This is all they have. Perhaps later, your friend, he will have something better."

Nacho rose slowly, careful to disguise just how much it hurt. If dressings were to be changed, the job should be done away from his father's eyes. If the older man saw bullet holes there was no saying how he would react.

"They're fine, Papa. I'll go get cleaned up."

He read the protest in his father's eyes and cut it off before it could be voiced with a well-timed comment that he might try something to eat. It was the perfect diversion; his father's face lit up with relief.

"Perhaps some eggs?"

Even the thought of eggs made Nacho feel nauseous. It must have shown in his expression because his father dismissed the idea of eggs immediately with a flap of his hand.

"I know mijo, champurrado! It was always your favorite when you were sick."

The taste of the thick, nourishing drink of hot chocolate and corn came back to Nacho with a pang similar to a feeling of homesickness. He nodded and smiled, suddenly too choked-up to speak. It had been his favorite, back in the almost forgotten, far-off days when he still had parents, plural. A time when he'd played in the dust with friends, and gangs and drugs were something to be avoided. Before the insanity that was Tuco. Before pointed boots and bloodied knuckles and guns tucked in the waistband and people suffocating in plastic bags. After all this time, despite everything, Papa had remembered.

Nacho closed the door to the small bathroom and put his face in his hands, trying to stop himself from breaking down completely. He couldn't, wouldn't allow that to happen. If he fell apart now, there was no telling if he would ever be able to put himself back together again. When he tasted blood, he realised he'd bitten his lip nearly through and hadn't even felt it.

"Don't freak out," he told the reflection of his battered face in the fly-spotted mirror. "You're a mess. Just keep it together."

He sought his own eyes in the reflection and assumed the thin-lipped, hooded gaze he used to stare down opposition, then worked his fingernails under the edge of the crusty dressing on his shoulder, talked himself through it mentally.

"Dressings. Okay. Get it done..."

The bandage came free with a crackling noise and dropped away onto the floor.

"Don't break eye contact. You break eye contact, you're weak. Just breathe."

Nostrils flared. Breathe in, breathe out.

"Okay, okay. Wipe now... careful...fuck that hurts! Breathe. Dressing on. Press. Shit. Okay... we're okay."

Three or four deep breaths, a hand drawn down his sweating face. Ignoring the quiver in his lip as he eased his vest upwards.

"Get 'em both off together, one hand at the front, one at the back. Shit, they're kinda wet...but that's good, right? Means they're gonna come off easy. Good grip, now pull. Jesus! Oh Dios, please! Eye contact, keep the eye contact. Don't look down; oh fuck, that's nasty. Just stick a dressing on quick. One, two, press. Don't pass out. Do not pass out. You're a fucking mess, Varga."

He lowered himself onto the small wooden stool, knuckles white as he gripped the cold porcelain of the sink. Had to sit there and just shake for a while. Teeth clenched, drifting in and out a bit until his father tapped on the door.

"Ignatio? Are you alright in there?"

"Yes, Papa." His voice as hoarse as though he'd been screaming, although he hadn't made a sound. "I'm done now."

Done, really fucking done, and a money collection due in three days time, the responsibility all his, if he was still breathing by then. He needed a strong front man, someone he could rely on not to steal the takings or see the situation as an opportunity to finish off one Nacho Varga while he was weak.

Mike Ehrmantraut.

...

The champurrado stayed down and meant Nacho could dose himself up with painkillers. Maximum dose. They took the edge off, just a little, just enough to slip into his jacket and put on a brave front, stand up straight like a man even though his body was shaking with chills and he could feel the burn of fever in his cheeks.

During the afternoon it had occurred to him that this thing might kill him. If it did, he had to be someplace else, with someone who wouldn't call the cops, someone who'd make sure the right people knew Nacho Varga had died of his gunshot wounds. Then there would be no suspicion he'd run, no recriminations.

It was past time to take his leave, before he dragged his father any deeper into the mess he'd made of his life.

He took a moment before he left, an indulgence just in case, and took a good look at the man who'd stuck by him, even now, despite their differences.

"Papa..."

"Don't say it, mijo. I know." Brown eyes soft and sad in the aging face. "Just promise me that you will get out." 

Nacho looked deep into the familiar gaze and spoke from his heart. "I promise."

Manuel smiled then, his careworn face re-mapping into something softer. "Get some proper treatment for those injuries."

Nacho nodded, turned to go and then turned back quickly on impulse, stepping in, putting an arm around the older man's shoulders and drawing him close. He stayed there a moment, dipping his head into his father's shoulder, the leathery cheek against his own and his nostrils filled with the scent of safety. Then he let go, stepped away and was gone through the door.

... 

Mike was on his couch, elbows on his knees, dangling the cold, frosted neck of a bottle of beer between his fingers and pondering on life in general, when a muted ping signalled the arrival of a message on his business cellphone. It was Varga, apparently still in the land of the living. There was a job to do and he needed Mike's help.

'Depends on the job' tapped out Mike, taking a cautious approach in case the task was not to his liking, or Varga's cell was now in the possession of some unsavory character, who'd hacked into it while its rightful owner decayed in a dusty grave.

It seemed as though he'd barely pressed 'send' when there was a hesitant tap on the door. To his surprise a quick check from behind the blinds revealed none other than one Ignacio Varga, standing on the porch, stance visibly rigid even in the dim light. Not dead yet then.

Mike eased the door open a little, his gun held loosely out of sight alongside his thigh but cocked and ready for use.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

There was an incomprehensible mumble, something about driving past, as Nacho shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his boot soles scuffing on the concrete. The gruff question and unfriendly stare seemed to have unnerved him, his normal calm confidence noticeably absent.

"It's a little late for house calls, don't you think?" Mike made no attempt to hide his irritation. Seemed like every gangster in the neighborhood knew his address and felt free to call round at their leisure.

"There's a job..."

"So you said." Mike interrupted, peering past him, checking the shadows, the street.

"It's cool; nobody knows I'm here."

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

There was a pause. Nacho shifted again, uneasy.

"Can I come in now?"

There was an unexpectedly plaintive pitch to the question. As there didn't seem to be anyone else lurking around, Mike huffed and begrudgingly opened the door wider, allowing Nacho to take a couple of steps inside. The man looked uncharacteristically off-balance, maybe drunk or high or worse and Mike scowled at him, inexplicably angry that Varga was even alive; it wasn't as though he'd actually spent unnecessary time worrying about him or anything, had he?

"Heavy night?" he asked in a sarcastic tone, considering whether or not he should just order the little piece of shit to leave.

"Could've been worse."

It was hard to see the younger man's expression, the room lit only by the flickering of the TV screen, but something felt out of kilter. The sooner their business was concluded the better.

"So?" Mike prompted. "The job? Gonna fill me in?"

"I'm gonna be doing the weekly collection. I could use a good front man for a few weeks. Someone I can trust. Until I get something permanent in place."

Mike waited.

"You know the place, right?"

"You know I do. What about your friend with the ponytail?"

"Arturo wasn't..." Nacho bit his lip, winced. "He's dead."

"Dead how?"

There was a brief silence, then Nacho looked away. "Just dead. There's something else. I, I need some things."

"What kinda things?"

The dark eyes turned back in his direction, Nacho peering up at him, intent.

"Antibiotics...strong, some dressings, maybe some antiseptic wash."

"The vet is your man for that."

"I can't go there." He didn't elaborate, hurrying on, his voice a little shaky. "And I need some place safe to stay."

"Dad still not speaking to you, huh?"

"I don't want him involved in this. If something bad happens, it can't be at his place." Definitely shaky. "I need someone who can do what needs to be done. No hospitals, no cops, just make sure the right people know I didn't run."

Mike waited, wondering just what sort of 'bad' he was referring to, hoping the next question wasn't what he thought it would be.

"Can I stay here?"

And there it was. What the hell was going on in the man's mind? Did he really think the few dealings they'd had were enough to justify that kind of request? It caused a spark of anger to ignite in Mike's chest. No man alive had the right to ask that kind of favor from him anymore. His answer must have shown on his face.

"I'll pay."

Desperation now, plain and simple. Varga leaning forward into his space, bringing with him an odd tang of copper and sweat and antiseptic. The light from the TV flickered pale, making the bones and shadows of his face stand out in sharp relief, creating a harsh death mask that sent fingers of ice tapping along Mike's spine.

"No," he said flatly. Better to keep it plain and simple.

"No?"

"That's what I said. No."

Silence. Mike's heart thudded, once, twice, a third time.

"Okay." Nacho's voice cracked as he sagged against the wall; it was as though the simple refusal had broken something inside him. "Okay," he repeated, his tone now so hopeless that Mike snapped on the light without thinking, obeying some subliminal message that told him extra light would reveal more than physical things.

The bare bulb hanging slightly behind him illuminated Nacho's face with its white light, picking out the color in his irises and turning his eyes from their usual deep brown to a liquid amber and gold. Something slipped through the thick, black lashes and broke free, sliding down over a high cheek bone as Nacho angled his face away in an attempt to hide it.

"Shit," said Mike, completely taken aback by this unexpected development. It struck him then that Nacho's stance was not so much that of a man who had sunk a fair amount of alcohol, rather that of a man trying to stay upright. Then there was the arm wrapped protectively around his middle, the grey pallor of his skin. This wasn't a man who wanted some meds and a bed for the night; this was a man who needed those things with a bone-deep desperation.

Mike laid a gentle hand on his arm, pulse picking up when he felt the shake even through the leather jacket. "Looks like something hit you pretty hard, kid. How about you tell me the facts. No bullshit, just facts."

Nacho chewed at his lip and frowned. Mike had just about decided nothing was forthcoming when the younger man seemed to make up his mind and words started tumbling out of his mouth.

"You know about Hector? Right. Well, Fring, he was there. He knows it was me, the tablets, but he's keeping it to himself, for now."

Nacho paused, dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Arturo and me, we went to get the Salamanca's drugs consignment from Fring's men and Arturo, he got greedy, asked for more. So..."

"So?" Mike prompted.

"So now Arturo is dead. Next day, Fring set up a hit in the desert, made it look like the Espanozos took us out. He knew the Salamanca brothers would finish the Espanozos and so that's more territory for him."

"The shooting that's all over TV." Mike concluded.

"Yeah."

Nacho was hunched into himself now, curling tighter round his middle, sweat gleaming on his forehead; he looked like he was about to pass out.

"Fring, he's happy for now, but he'll want more from me. Meantime, I get to hold the fort for the Salamancas..."

He stopped suddenly, probably remembering the decisive 'no'. After a brief pause he straightened with difficulty and moved toward the door, holding himself stiffly upright as he looked at Mike, sunburn and scratches showing stark against his pale face.

"It's not your problem. I'll go now."

"Thought you were hiring me. Guess that makes it my problem."

Mike knew he'd regret it, wasn't ready to analyse what made him relent. He told himself this was someone's son, a son trying to protect his father, just like Mattie had tried.

Nacho squinted at him in a dazed sort of way. Mike wasn't sure if he'd even heard him. Or maybe he had and it was enough for him to let go of whatever iron control had been keeping him upright. The sound of the younger man's breathing was suddenly audible over the subdued mutter of the TV. Slow, deep, ragged breaths. Then he simply fell back heavily against the wall, eyes rolling upwards as he slid down to land in an untidy sprawl on Mike's floor. 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Mike tugged at the crumpled body, laid it out flat on his cheap imitation wood flooring, his heart tripping along with the unexpectedness of it all; this wasn't the way he'd planned on ending his evening. He was concerned by the limp-limbed lack of resistance; wherever Nacho Varga had gone, it was far away.

A quick check revealed a fast, shallow pulse and a stained dressing low down on Nacho's left side. The skin of his throat felt far too hot and dry beneath Mike's fingertips and he was clearly feverish and completely unresponsive to any attempts to revive him.

"Let's get that jacket off, cool you down some."

Odd how he felt the need to reassure him. Maybe it was because he looked so defenseless, all sprawled out like that, besides perhaps Varga would hear him on some level.

Mike carefully removed the clinging leather, struggling more than he liked and finding the younger man was a lot heavier than he looked. There were two more wounds, all three of them shocking in their severity. 

"Jesus, kid! You need help." 

He'd come for help though, hadn't he? And Mike had nearly refused him.

...

"Yeah?" 

"I could use some help. The medical kind."

"Seeing as you're calling, I guess it can't wait 'til morning. But it's not as though I need to sleep or anything." There was an inaudible, disgruntled mutter. "Can you get to the surgery?" 

"No. It'll be a house call. I'll meet you by the Pizza Galore place."

"Give me fifteen minutes...no, wait, do I need my trauma bag, 'cause it sounds like I need my trauma bag? Make it twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes later an irritated Caldera dumped a large medical bag on the rear seat of Mike's car. He flopped into the front passenger seat with a huff, pulled off his glasses and peered across at Mike as he polished them with the hem of his t-shirt.

"This ain't gonna be cheap." 

"I know it."

They pulled out of the lot, Mike taking it steady.

"You want to fill me in here?" 

"Gunshot. Two. Couple of days old."

"What is it with this place? Assholes shooting each other full of holes and expecting me to fix...wait a goddamn minute! This wouldn't be a mutual acquaintance of ours? 'Cause I told him..." 

"He doesn't know I'm here. He won't know you're there." Mike sighed. "You can call it a favor, to me."

Caldera grunted, pushed his glasses back into place. "Make that real expensive! This shit is too hot for me. I told him, get to someone with some imaging tech! If he's taken a turn for the worse, there might be nothing I can do."

"I get that." Now where did that huskiness come from? Mike cleared his throat, concentrated on his driving. Varga dead was not a palatable thought.

"I've been here before, over there..." Caldera waved his hand to a house a few doors down from Mike's. "Old lady called me out for her cat; got a piece of fishbone stuck in its gullet. Hell of a job getting it out."

"Course you have," muttered Mike. "Might as well mark the place on GPS."

"I could've driven myself here you know." 

"And then you'd have my address on your cell." 

"Now there's the criminal mind, always suspicious." 

He was a fine one to talk. 

Mike held the house door open, stood back for Caldera to manoeuvre his bag inside. Varga was still on the floor, tilted to one side and propped up with a rolled towel.

The vet dropped to one knee, sucking air through his teeth, suddenly all business as he slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and inspected the damage. After a while he looked up at Mike, his eyes angry behind his glasses. 

"Shouldn't have gone this way. I told him...rest, keep it clean and dry, change the dressings daily. He had a good chance, getting blood and all. Look at this..." He gestured vigorously at Nacho's torso. "Ripped stitches, dirt, infected all to hell. We need to get him cleaned up, like now! You got a bed or a table or something?" 

"Have to be the bed." 

The vet nodded, sharp. "Put some towels or something over it, then come here and get his legs. We get in there, you'll have to hold him down when I clean him up."

"Can't you give him something?" It made Mike's insides lurch, the thought of Caldera digging around without anaesthetic. 

"No. He's too far gone for what I've got in my bag. He should be in a goddamned hospital." 

...

The desert sun impaled him, its fierce heat forcing him down into the parched dust as though he was a fiery branding iron pressed against the hide of some monstrous beast.

The breeze that caused the thin material of his shirt to quiver and flutter brought no respite. Its light breath passed like hot sandpaper over the exposed skin of his face and forearms, the v of his throat, reddening already sunburnt skin, cracking his lips and sucking valuable moisture from his body. He could not afford to lose any more fluids, not with the steady leak of his life force after the passage of hot metal into, and through, him.

Nacho moaned quietly, the sound lost in the vastness of the landscape. No-one had come after all. No-one was coming. It had all been a delirious dream, created by his pain-crazed mind while his shocked body lay on the desert floor. He was utterly alone, every struggling beat of his heart witness to his agonising demise.

He wished the second bullet had killed him outright, just snuffed him out of existence before his brain realised what was happening. Better to die under the sneers of enemies than to die alone in agony.

He'd never imagined how being shot felt, not really. Okay, so he had a piece of skull embedded in his shoulder and that had hurt like a bitch, but that remembered hurt was nothing compared to the bullet burning now in his right shoulder. Even so, that injury alone would have been bearable. He would've made the call, ripped his shirt to use as a makeshift dressing, sat quietly in the shade of the car until help arrived. Awful, incapacitating, but survivable.

The second shot was beyond his worst nightmares. There had been a split second view of the satisfaction in Vic's eyes, a hopeless attempt to ward off the round with his hands and then something had hit him with such terrible force that he was crashing down onto the hard surface, broken, before he could begin to process what had happened.

He'd made the call, passed out before the end, had no idea if he'd said enough to enable them to find him. It seemed he hadn't.

Making another call was out of the question. His cell had dropped from his grasp when he fell unconscious. It lay only a few inches away from his outstretched hand; it might as well have been a few miles. He found himself utterly incapable of movement; it was a hard enough task to simply try and breathe through the agony. Wriggling across to a cell phone, that probably had a dead battery anyway, was an impossibility. 

Surely Fring hadn't intended him to die, not today, before he could put the finger on the Espanozas? Perhaps it wasn't so much "make it look real" as Victor getting revenge for Nacho pulling a gun on him in his backing of Arturo. After all a shot to the gut often meant the victim died slowly and in agony, with ample time to pass on a message. This was the final fucked up act in his fucked up life then...bleeding out alone in the desert, failing at even that one last task.

At some point he must have passed out again. He awoke abruptly to the same hell, the desert grit hot beneath his fingernails when he clenched his fist, a mute reaction to an increase in the sharp throbbing in his shoulder. He twisted his head, dried twigs scraping at his scalp, trying to see what was happening. There was a shadow there beside him, surrounded by a strange cold light, but he couldn't focus enough to identify it. 

Then suddenly, there was white hot fire exploding in his abdomen, a scream bursting from behind his clenched teeth, his hands flying to his side, body writhing helplessly. A vulture loomed over him, its cruel beak tearing at his wounds, its eyes those of Hector Salamanca.

Nacho thrashed frantically...and found himself held. Large, firm hands captured his own, pulling them clear of his side as the weight of a heavy frame pinned him down. The last thing he heard before the darkness sucked him in was a voice - deep, familiar, reassuring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to know what you think so far...


	4. Chapter 4

 

The front door shut with a decisive click, almost cutting off the tail end of Caldera's "I'll make my own goddamn way home."

Mike grimaced and plopped himself down on the hard wooden chair where he normally dumped clothes that weren't quite dirty enough for washing.

He stared vacantly at the open garbage bag; its contents of used dressings, dirty cloths and a hopelessly blood stained t-shirt and towel spilled loosely over the top and would necessitate a trip out of town sometime soon. It wasn't the sort of bag you wanted to burst open in your garbage, far better it found a home in a hole in the desert. It would have to wait until morning though; he felt drained emotionally and physically by the events of the last few hours and besides, Varga could not be left alone.

During the course of Caldera's ministrations the younger man had emerged from complete unconsciousness to a state of frantic delirium, finally calming enough to slip back into uneasy semi-consciousness. The frantic delirium had left Mike with bruises as though he'd been in a fairly major bar fight and he wasn't sure his left thumb would ever be the same again. Injured or not, Varga had shown the lean strength of a cornered mountain lion.

The next few hours were critical, the vet had told him; either Varga's fever would break and he would start a slow recovery, or he would die. It had seemed as though Caldera didn't care much either way, but his patient had chosen that moment to open those stupidly soft eyes of his before slipping under again, and Caldera, frowning as though he was cross at himself, had begrudgingly patted Varga's forearm and muttered a few words of reassurance. No wonder he was a vet, Mike had thought, bemused. No bedside manner worth mentioning, but a sucker for a pair of big, brown eyes.

"So," he said, tired and gruff, into the space left by Caldera's departure. "You gonna fight now, kid? 'Cause if ever there was a time for fighting, now would be it."

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer, just the slow rise and fall of the other man's lean ribcage, the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath the skin of his sun-darkened throat.

Time seemed to blur, Mike drifting, tired, in a half-sleep full of Mattie and regret and long-buried memories until a hoarse mutter drew his attention to the bed. Varga said something in Spanish, the words a jumbled mess until one stood out, clear, unmistakable, and Mike's gut clenched at the torture of it.

"Hey," he said, unreasonably distressed and not sure what to do until Varga's hand fumbled towards the newly stitched wound in his side. Then it was the most natural thing in the world to simply take hold of that hand and draw it away. Mike sat there for a moment with it resting loosely in his palm - strong fingers, veins running below skin a shade or two darker than his own and marred with white scarring around the webbing of the thumb and across the knuckles. Warm, alive. When the word came again, spoken on an exhausted sigh, it was instinct to fold his own fingers around those in his palm, hold on tight, giving comfort yet taking it at the same time.  
...

 It was cold when Nacho awoke, and although that was a welcome change after the fiery pits of Hell through which he'd stumbled for the last few hours, it was also unpleasantly damp. He shivered involuntarily and opened his eyes. To his surprise it was daylight and he was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room.

He racked his brains, trying to remember what had happened to bring him to this unknown place. All he could remember was Mike saying "no", and then an overwhelming feeling that he had nothing else left to give, no possible way to survive any longer, then just...muddled nightmares where he had thought himself still alone and bleeding  under the burning sun, as though the Salamanca brothers had never found him.

Nacho moved his gaze carefully from the window, across the cracks in the cream ceiling and onto a figure slumped on a chair by his side. Mike. So logically this must be Mike's house, probably Mike's bed. He felt a wave of shame and embarrassment; he'd asked for help, been refused and then forced his hand by simply passing out on Mike's floor. Way to go, Varga; real badass.

On the upside, he felt a lot better than he had since sitting in the driving seat next to Arturo's corpse, with the sickening landscape of his ex-colleague's brains spread out across the cracked windshield. He felt cooler, less muddled, less...infected. His left hand tracked down, the edge of a dry and clean dressing crisp under his fingertips. He was still hurting but no longer with the grinding pain that had been stealing his life from him, minute by minute, hour by hour.

He shivered again and revisited the thought that he was lying on damp bedding, icy sweat caught in the fold of his elbows and knees and puddled in between his collarbones. He was cold all over, except for his right hand which was tucked into something warm. He pulled it experimentally towards him and realised with a shock that  fingers were tightening around his own and that Mike's head was coming up, eyes bleary with sleep as they turned towards him. Nacho blushed, an unstoppable flood of dark blood across the skin of his cheekbones, his neck. Any street cred he might have had left was utterly shattered, completely irretrievable.

Before he could dwell on the thought, his hand was released and the fingers that had recently kept it captive went to his throat, pressing in over his pulse.

Mike gave a satisfied grunt.

"Looks like you won, kid. Wasn't sure you would. How you feeling?"

"Cold," said Nacho, trying to look anywhere but at Mike's face. 

Mike nodded. "That's a good thing. You had one hell of a fever there."

There was a lengthy pause, as though they both needed to draw breath and take stock of where they were after the intensity of the last twelve hours. Eventually Nacho shivered again and Mike got to his feet, hands on his hips as he stretched the stiffness out of his lower back.

"Better get you cleaned up."

"I'm okay to do that." Nacho's voice came out at a higher pitch than he would have liked. He really needed to man up. Another hot wave of embarrassment rushed over him, rising from his neck to his cheeks, stretching down across the naked expanse of his chest and causing Mike's eyebrow to go up in an amused little arc.

"Sure you are," said the older man in that calm, slow way of his. "Shower is that way. Don't get those dressings wet." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom and began to tie up the garbage bag on the floor.

Mike hadn't thrown him to the wolves. Not that Nacho had been expecting that exactly, more hoping Mike would begrudgingly let him stay, for a fee of course. He'd planned to find a quiet corner and put himself back together, work through some of the shit that was clogging his brain and then be back out there, kicking ass, in a day or two. Instead he'd collapsed, laid himself out on the floor, vulnerable and in such a pathetic state that at some point stoic, solid, unemotional Mike Ehrmantraut had found it necessary to comfort him, to actually hold his hand. What the fuck had he done, or said, to cause that?

It wasn't a question Nacho was inclined to ask, not one he was sure he wanted an answer to anyway. He kept his eyes down and concentrated on getting himself off the bed without embarrassing himself any further.

By the time he returned, the bed was wearing clean sheets and Mike was gone, leaving behind him a clean room as bland and impersonal as that of any motel. It seemed too much of a presumption to lie down on the bed again, although his shaking legs suggested that would be a wise plan, so Nacho tucked the towel around him more securely and headed slowly for the main living area and the possibility of a couch. He wasn't sure if Mike wanted him gone immediately or if there was some flexibility in the situation, but one thing was for sure, he was going no further at that moment without his clothes. 

The couch proved as plain and unassuming as the rest of the house seemed to be, but it was solid and right there and Nacho eased himself onto it with a heartfelt sigh of relief.

The house settled like a cocoon around him, its beige emptiness oddly reassuring. For a few minutes unorganised thoughts of his responsibilities the following day ran through Nacho's head, then the silence seemed to slip under his skin, making his limbs loose and his eyelids heavy. The thoughts drifted away and he fell asleep without even realising it. 

... 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Enjoy!

 

When Nacho awoke, it was to the scent of brewing coffee and a pile of freshly laundered clothes. He freed his arms from the thin sheet that had been dropped over him while he slept and scrubbed at his eyes, wondering how the hell he'd been so out of it that someone could approach him, asleep or not, without him being ready with a gun or a blade in his hand.

Of his gun there was no sign, but his cell phone lay on top of the folded clothes and he reached out to it, heart missing a beat when he realized he hadn't checked for messages since he'd left his father's house.

Thankfully there were no messages or missed calls, and the date and time on the scratched and dusty screen confirmed he hadn't done anything unforgivable and potentially fatal like losing a day. That meant the collection for the Salamanca's was due the following morning. He had a vague memory of Mike agreeing to act as frontman, couldn't be sure that had actually happened, but really hoped he hadn't imagined it. The thought of putting on his business face for street-savvy dealers made him feel distinctly uneasy, the familiar role suddenly way outside his comfort zone.

"Well look at you. Figured you were gonna sleep the clock round."

Nacho flinched, hard. Shit. They would eat him alive if he couldn't even tell an old man was creeping up on him. Not that Mike was just any old man, qualifying as a scary sonofabitch in anyone's books.

Mike looked knowingly at the cell phone in his white knuckled grip.

"You still wanting me to act as frontman tomorrow?" 

"Yeah." Pathetic. Was he really that obvious? Good thing Mike was too old-school professional to point it out.

"You have an alternative location in mind?" 

"I'm on it." Nacho gestured with his cell. It went without saying that the collection would take place somewhere Mike wasn't known. There were two alternatives and Nacho quickly decided on the most suitable and punched out a coded text to the dealers. They would be curious, but with all the shit going down with the Espanozas it wasn't likely they would be too surprised at a last minute change of location. Besides they would know better than to question a direct instruction; working for Tuco and Hector left no-one in any doubt that unwanted questions were the short road to a Columbian neck-tie.

Mike waited until he'd finished, then nodded in the direction of the clothes. 

"Now here's what's gonna happen. You are gonna get your clothes on, we'll eat, then we'll run through tomorrow. And then you'll rest. Come tomorrow I'll keep you in the background as much as I can, but you still gonna need to look the part."

... 

Look the part. Nacho's brow wrinkled as he stared at himself in the mirror. His clothes looked the part well enough; shirt, jeans, boots, jacket. No sign of bandages. His snake earring, the set of his jaw, the remaining scrapes on his face, they all looked the part. But there was something off about his eyes. A lack of certainty, too much emotion, too little confidence, a lack of the Nacho Varga everyone knew. Shades then. Used right they could be unnerving to an onlooker. He would be okay. 

"Here you go." 

Mike planted Nacho's gun on the ledge beneath the mirror. It made a dull thunking sound as it settled on the wood and Nacho reached out automatically and took it in his hand. And suddenly he was not okay, had no chance whatsoever of being okay any time soon.

In that split second when his fingertips came into contact with the cold metal the ground beneath him seemed to vaporize, leaving him suspended precariously over a dizzying drop as the breath left his lungs in a single panicked wheeze. The box of memories he had carefully locked away from his emotions ripped wide open, spilling them raw and smoking across his inner vision.

"Whoah!" Mike's voice, far away in a grey fog. Long fingers closed over his own, taking the gun away.

The mirror was still there, reflecting his shocked face, yet it was in no way as real as _Tuco screaming his mindless violence aloud, as a kid Nacho had known since first grade turned to pulp beneath his bare fists..._

_Cool night air shivered across his face, pills scattered across the floor, rolling, rolling, as lethal to him as Hector..._

Can't breathe.

_"You are mine." Fring, polite, vicious. "You are mine." "You are mine."_

"Hey!" 

_Arturo...dying, his teeth white and square behind misty plastic, eyes pleading and nothing Nacho could do as the light went out of them, leaving nothing but his own reflection, dim and distorted through the plastic._

"Jesus, kid." 

_The kick of the gun unfamiliar in his left hand, trigger pulled in visceral fear because please, no, he couldn't survive another hit. Then the oily feeling in his gut, the man on his face in the dirt...dead. No way Papa would ever forgive that._

"Who's dead?" Mike's voice, somewhere above him. 

"I killed him." No air, no air... his chest heaved desperately. 

"Hold on to me." Strong hands dug into his biceps. "Breathe. C'mon, steady now." 

A painful crack as his kneecaps hit the floor, Mike cursing as he went down with him.

"Breathe. C'mon now, with me. Breathe in, let it out. That's it. Again, nice and slow now." 

Nacho's forehead lolled against warm material, a hard shoulder blade. Dizzy...air like razor blades, fuck, was he crying? Was that what this was, this burning, tearing feeling? 

A warm hand cupped the back of his head, the other firm on his shoulder, holding him together as he fell apart. 

... 

"You're a mess kid." 

There was no defence against that; it was true anyway. Nacho's fingers worried at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans. He kept his face turned away, staring through the dust streaked side window of Mike's car. 

"You can't just walk away from this game, you know that, right?" 

"No shit," muttered Nacho. "You walk, you die. I get that."

For a time Mike was silent. Nacho snuck a quick glance at him; he was chewing at his lip in a considering sort of way.

"Who'd you kill?" 

The question was casual, but it hung in the air between them, suspended with the gently swirling dust motes, growing bigger by the second. 

"He ran with the Espanozas. I don't know what they called him." It brought a sense of real shame, that taking of life without even knowing the name.

"First time, huh?" 

Nacho hung his head. Not the first time he'd been instrumental in a death, that was the nature of the business. But yes, first time he'd dealt that hand himself. 

"Surprised it took so long, crowd you run with." 

"It wasn't like that."

"No?"

"I had to back the Salamancas."

Mike pulled up at a red light, the suspension squealing quietly. He waited, patient and quiet, seeming to know that the words would fall out of Nacho's mouth eventually. 

"He had a gun on me."

He knew he should feel sorry. It wasn't as though it hadn't crossed his mind, that there might be kids out there, waiting for a father that wasn't coming home. He did feel bad about it, but not too much; the guy was a bad guy and he knew what he was signing up for, just like Nacho had. At the end of the day he was a bad guy, caught up in a gang shootout, and his team lost.

"So either he took you out, or you took him out. That's not much of a choice."

There was understanding, sympathy even, on Mike's face as he looked across the car. Nacho followed the direction of his gaze and realized belatedly that he had curled over a little, arm protectively over his violated midriff. There hadn't been any hesitation at all, not after the...thing...that Victor had done to him. If time was reversed, Nacho would shoot the Espanoza again, because he couldn't get it out of his mind, the feeling of helplessness out there in the desert. The fear still made his mouth dry and his soul tremble. No-one was ever going to do that to him again. 

"You know what you've done. The question is, can you live with it?"

"I can live with it." Not like there was any real choice anyway.

... 

Unsurprisingly Mike was a good front man. He sat at the battered desk in the little stuffy office of the laundromat, leaving Varga the threadbare couch and stained coffee table. 

The dealers trickled in over the next few hours, a little nervous at the change of plans, relieved when they saw Varga's familiar figure, a lot nervous when they met Mike's impassive stare.

The payments went smoothly; no one had experienced any problems dealing, not with the supply from the Espanozas dried up. In the main part Nacho stayed out of it, nothing required from him other than a tilt of his head towards Mike when a dealer hesitated, unsure about this stranger. They accepted it easily enough; news had got around about Hector and Arturo, so it was only to be expected that Nacho would now be in charge of collections and would have some tough guy with him. If anyone had any initial doubts about Mike being a tough guy, they soon disappeared after a few minutes in his taciturn presence and under his steely glare. Then there was just time for their hurried acknowledgement of Nacho and his gruff response, and they were hurrying out the door with a nearly tangible sense of relief accompanying them.

The hardest part for Nacho was dealing with the thoughts in his own head. They spiralled wildly, his emotions following on the crazy ride, until sometimes it was nearly impossible to keep his game face on. Mike seemed to sense those moments with some weird in-built intuition. Those were the times when he would ask Nacho to check an already carefully counted roll of dollars, or would suggest a coffee or a chilled coke from the vending machine.

Gradually, as the day went on, Nacho's thoughts slowed and coalesced until, by the time Mike was packing up, his earlier somewhat vague plans had joined seamlessly with his current state of mind.

"I can't do this anymore."

The movement of Mike's hands paused. He waited. 

"I have to get out, get my dad away from here, somewhere no-one will ever find us."

"You got a plan?"

"Yeah. I been working on it for a time, but it's gonna take more time. This could be a good opportunity. Hector, he's no good now; if I'm lucky, maybe he'll croak. Tuco, he's out of the way, for now."

Nacho counted them off on his fingers.

"Leonel and Marco, they don't stay north of the border for long. Maybe I get to run things locally for the Salamancas. That's a good opportunity for me, to make progress with my plans."

Mike hefted the bag, as though he was testing the weight of all that dirty money.

"What about Fring?"

Nacho sighed, tired of it all.

"I'll have to deal. Take it as it comes."

He got to his feet, slow, sore, weary. Mike stepped ahead of him, opened the door, looking back over his shoulder.

"You gonna do this thing, you gotta do it right. You gotta be smart, live the life one hundred percent. Toughen up."

Nacho bristled a little at that. He was tough, when it was needed. Mike sighed.

"Tougher, meaner. So there are no doubts. You tell no-one, not even your Pa. You put aside as much cash as you can, get your documents in order and you make sure no-one finds out."

"That's the plan. Play it cool, smart."

"Good. But from here on in, lose the empathy. Be what they're expecting to see - the house, the car, the women, the drugs. You get the picture?"

Nacho nodded, grim, chewing on his lip. He'd come to that conclusion already, but hearing it out loud, that made it real.

"You lock your shit away, someplace safe."

Mike turned away then, away through the door, leaving it swinging behind him. He didn't just mean the money and the documents, thought Nacho; he meant the shit in his head. He straightened his back, firming his jaw against the resultant fiery stab in his shoulder, against the deep ache in his abdomen. The physical pain would ease, then he could train hard, toughen up physically again as well as mentally. Be ready for anything.

The room hung around him, hot and stuffy. It would be hard and it would be lonely and Papa wouldn't understand, but maybe he would forgive him one day, when Nacho finally told him they were leaving.

Then again, Papa was strong, maybe he wouldn't want to leave his home, his business, his friends. If that happened...Nacho's stomach gave a sick slide but suddenly settled; if that was the case, he had nothing left to lose anyway. All he would have to do then was get himself killed, some way there would be no comeback on his family.

Nacho stretched out his hand, his fingers tan against the grubby white of the door.

"Okay, Varga," he said quietly. "Okay."

When he pushed the door open, the sky was a brassy, blue arc over the dusty lot. It was going to be a long, hot night. Nacho took in a slow breath and stepped out into his future.

The end. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it was worth the read? Any kudos gratefully accepted.

**Author's Note:**

> Characters are not mine, never will be. I won't be making any cash or gaining any fame. I'm borrowing them for your entertainment, and mine!  
> All rights belong to anyone who has official ownership.


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